


Changing My Spots

by thegirlgrey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pack Feels, Sick Stiles, Teen Wolf, True Alpha Scott, Werewolves, gratuitous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlgrey/pseuds/thegirlgrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles manages to catch the chicken pox. He also manages to catch a boyfriend, but that kind of supersedes the story. The very itchy, scratchy story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing My Spots

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an off shoot to chapter 21 of [Marked, Maimed, Claimed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/429777/chapters/726163). I had to go a different direction in the chapter, but I couldn't let this idea go!
> 
> And as always...
> 
> As far as I’m concerned Erica never died, Boyd never died, and episode 8 (3a) NEVER HAPPENED. In fact Most of 3b NEVER HAPPENED. Nope. Nuh-uh. You can’t make me! Leave me alone in my deluded, disillusioned bubble. It’s better this way.

Scott all but carries Stiles into the den. It’s technically Derek’s new apartment, but Stiles will always call it a den just to mess with Derek. For all he bitches and moans about the dog and wolf jokes, he has never actually tried to rip Stiles' throat out like he promised. Stiles thinks it’s because Derek secretly finds them hilarious. (He caught him smirking more than once okay?) Scott tries to actually guide him into a seat on the couch. Stiles smacks his hands away and flops down onto the butter soft leather himself.

“I'm not going to keel over any second, Scott.”

Scott stops fretting over him like some sort of momma wolf. _Momma wolf_ , heh. It’s insane. So is the fact that at 21 he’s somehow managed to catch the chicken pox. What is his life? He doesn't have a chance to really contemplate how completely screwed up his life is as the rest of the pack clamber in. They sound like a pack of elephants and not a pack of werewolves. Derek is not going to be pleased that his super secret stealth training has gone to waste. Erica bowls over Isaac to get ahead of them. Jackson saunters in after everyone else letting Lydia drag him after her. Stiles rolls his eyes. The _whole I am not pack but I will reluctantly join you to do all things pack related_ thing has gotten old fast since he came back from his romp around London 3 years ago. Everyone knows he’s pack. He just doesn't want to admit it. That's Scott’s problem not Stiles’. Stiles’ problem is a lot more annoying and itchy.

“How did you not get chicken pox when we were kids?”

He knows where the sudden annoyance comes from, side affect of being sick, but he can't control the snark that rolls off his tongue so easily.

“Maybe because I wasn't in school during the great chicken pox epidemic of ’97, and hospitals are super clean. It’s kind of their thing. No leg for Varicella to stand on.”

Erica pales and jerks back like she’s been slapped. Stiles sees it and feels his stomach bottom out.

“Shit. Erica, I’m sorry. I didn't mean it. I’m tired and cranky and so fucking itchy, my god. I just want to scratch, like the time Scott got fleas but a million times worse.”

Scott protests.

“Hey, it’s not like I caught them on purpose. I work in a vet’s office!”

His outburst does what Stiles’ planned. The tension in the room is gone. Erica is smiling now, but Stiles still feels bad about his outburst. It’s easier to talk about his mom now because he knows that the pack will be there to pick up the pieces and put him back together again. But it still hurts. He’s just frustrated that this is something he can't fight off physically or research a cure for. Erica slowly edges her way over to Stiles. He nudges her arm with one of his makeshift oven mitt glove covered hands.

“Wanna do Batman a favor and use those claws on his extremely itchy skin?”

She barely manages to scratch at the skin of his forearm when Scott grabs her wrist and tugs her away. He all but shoves her to Isaac sitting on the sofa across from him in the huge ass living area. Scott is a sucky ass Alpha (he really isn't).

“Catwoman nooooo! Scott, _come on_. I’m dying here!”

He only narrows his eyes at his best friend.

“No. You heard what my mom said. You're going to scar if you scratch.”

Stiles rubs against the couch again, but it does little to nothing to relieve the incessant itch. He groans as Erica give him a frown and gets comfortable next to Isaac who still looks guilty and apologetic. Scott had caught him earlier trying to help Stiles out by raking his hands down his back. He didn’t even get more than two fingers on his t-shirt before Scott was dragging him away lecturing about how helping Stiles would actually hurt him. Stiles tries to give them both a goofy grin but ends up pulling a Samantha Stevens. Even his nosed itched! The most he could do was rub a covered hand against it. He bites at the ducktape holding the oven mitts to his hands. Scott bats his hands away gently.

“Do I even want to know what the hell is going on?”

Scott doesn’t turn to face Boyd. He just crosses his arms over his chest and watches Stiles like a hawk.

“Stiles has the chicken pox.”

Boyd looks confused for a second before he nods sharply with a somewhat understanding grimace on his face. Stiles ignores the stern “ ** _Do not scratch Stiles_** ” Scott throws over his shoulder at him as he heads outside to answer his buzzing phone. It’s Allison so he has a few minutes. She hasn't had chicken pox either. Her family moved around too much so she’s on quarantine until Stiles is deemed no longer contagious. He'd feel bad for putting Scott in the middle of her and Isaac’s relationship (Scott had forced her to stay home so she won't catch it either), but he’s too busy being fucking itchy and using his temporary Scott reprieve to care. He waves at Boyd with both hands.

“Boyd, my man! My main werewolf man! Light of my life, fire of my loi-“

Boyd drops onto the couch next to Erica. An arm goes around her shoulders automatically. Smug is a good look on her. It’s unfair.

“You finish that sentence, and I will scratch something that won't feel nice.”

Stiles has the nerve to grin even wider at him.

“Awww, Derek is teaching you how to be a grumpywolf! That’s so cute. But come on man. Just a quick itch between my shoulder blades before Scott comes back. I'll give you whatever’s in my bank account.”

Boyd blinks at him, and Stiles squirms. Even his fucking armpits itch.

“You weren't lying.”

Stiles rubs against the leather couch again, annoyed that it still hasn't developed a course, catching surface to get enough friction to ease the feeling.

“Dude, I feel like my skin is trying to crawl away from me. I am not lying.”

He slouches enough to rest his neck on the back edge of the couch to rub against. It does nothing except give him a direct view up Derek’s nose from where Derek is towering over him. Stiles grimaces at the unamused face he’s getting.

“Scott!”

Stiles smirks as Scott comes rushing back in at the sound of his head Beta’s voice. His face is pulled down into a frown, and his eyes are infrared and looking over him sharply. Stiles rolls his eyes but pulls himself into a normal sitting position. Now that Scott’s present again Derek does what he does best. He delegates (he does not “bark” orders, and Stiles can still recall Derek making air quotes around the word when Stiles had offhandedly commented on his command skills) to the rest of his pack and Alpha. Derek treats Scott more like a kid brother than an Alpha. Scott doesn't really act like an Alpha at all. They have a weird relationship. It works for them, for the pack.

“You said his medicine should be ready?”

Scott nods, still watching Stiles like a hawk. His eyes, now back to a normal brown, skip from his best friend to the scattering of magazines on the coffee table and back again. It would be hilarious if Stiles wasn't actually considering rolling up one of them and using it like a back scratcher. He’s that desperate, Jesus.

“Yeah, I asked the pharmacist to put a rush on it, but he still had to order more from the pharmacy across town. He said it should be filled,” he looks down at his phone, “in 20 minutes.”

Stiles flips him the bird. Even though no one can see it behind the glove the intention is still there. Erica snickers. Isaac tries to stifle a snort. He’s a grown ass man (almost). They had to triple to dosage of the antiviral medicine that they normally give the kids, and his regular pharmacy didn't have enough to cover it. Hence Stiles sitting around in excruciating itchy pain for- _freaking_ -ever.

“Alright, Isaac go pick up his medicine. Scott, go with him, make sure he doesn’t stop by Allison’s. You both might be carrying the virus. I don't want anyone else in the pack to catch this. Erica and Boyd, go get take out.”

Before they start arguing Derek hands them money and tosses Boyd the keys to the Toyota.

“Chinese. Lydia, Jackson go rent some movies. Enough to last a couple hours… something we haven't seen a million times.”

The words _The Notebook_ are left unsaid, but Lydia still glares at him and turns on her heel with a huff. He turns to Peter but he’s already moving and rummaging around in the kitchen for something. Stiles tries to lean over the back of the sofa again to see but gets distracted by how a line of stitching feels against the skin of the back of his neck. He turns his head so the seam of cushion can catch against it. He groans because it doesn't do anything to help. Peter’s standing over him now. Stiles watches him watch him upside down. His staring is apparently still creepy from any angle.

“I’ll make the salve we used to use on the little ones. It’ll help and smell better than that oat monstrosity you've drowned yourself in.”

Stiles lifts his bound hands.

“At this point I am willing to try anything to make the itching stop. Even whatever wacky concoction you come up with.”

“Your belief in me Stiles, it makes my heart soar.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at Peter and his deadpan face. Things have gotten better with Peter (he can be in the same room with him without his fight or flight instinct kicking in), but Stiles still keeps a close eye on the resurrected werewolf. If Derek trusts him to do this for Stiles then he'll trust Peter. He just really hopes whatever salve he’s making does as promised because all the wheat oat bath stuff Mrs. McCall gave him only helped for like five minutes and then made him smell like the inside of some old lady’s pantry. He groans and flops back on the couch in misery. Derek sits next to him. Stiles lifts the arm thrown over his eyes to look at Derek. Mostly it’s so he won't start biting at it. He’s so fucking _itchy_.

“I know we've moved past the physical violence a while ago, but I am seriously considering annoying you into knocking me out.”

Derek tilts his head in a considering manner. Stiles nods.

“Yeah, it’s that bad.”

The quiet werewolf studies him for a long moment before nodding.

“I can help. Just sit still.”

Stiles doesn't even question it. He trusts Derek. They’ve saved each other’s lives so many times they’ve lost count. They've become friends since Derek came back from his soul-finding journey with Cora a little more than 4 years ago. Besides, he really is willing to try anything to make the itching stop. How do kids even stand it? Then there’s a large warm hand rubbing hard against the back of his neck. _Oh_. Derek moves his hand to knead against Stiles back between his shoulder blades were the worse of the pox sprung up. Stiles groans.

“Not to sound straight out of some harlequin romance novel but _harder_ , please.”

Stiles is expecting Derek to put a little more elbow grease in. He isn't expecting him to start rubbing his face all over his upper back. Stiles can't really find it in him to care. The scruff feels amazing against his inflamed and irritated skin. He goes boneless as something between a groan and whine leaves his mouth. Only Derek holding him in place stops him from melting into a puddle on the floor.

“I seriously take back all the shit I've ever said about you. Best. Werewolf. _Everrrr_.”

Derek grumbles something against his back. His chin brushes hard against his back to help the itch, but it’s not enough to cause scars to form. Stiles is too busy writing sonnets in his head about Derek’s perpetual 5 o'clock shadow that he misses what Derek says the first two times.

“Huh?”

Derek chuckles. Stiles can feel it.

“I said you need to go shower.”

He makes a pathetic sound, but he doesn't give a damn. That’s the best he’s felt since he woke up with a fever a day ago. Derek pushes at his shoulder until he stands up.

“You smell, and you need to have clean skin for the salve to work like it should.”

Stiles grumbles while Derek uses his claws to carefully cut through the duct tape to free his hands from the oven mitts. He doesn't let go right away. Instead he levels Stiles with his best glare.

“No scratching.”

He wants to stomp his feet but as much as he’s sick with a child’s illness he is actually not a child. Ugh. He’s never volunteering at the Children’s Reading Corner at the public library ever again.

“Fine.”

He grabs the bag Scott packed him and heads off to the bathroom. One glance at the clock tells him that they hadn't been on the sofa for five minutes like he originally thought. It’s been closer to 20. Jesus, it just felt that damn good. He does his best to get in and out as quickly as possible to limit his chances of scratching. It’s not until he gets out of the shower and back into Derek’s room with a towel around his waist that he runs into a problem. He dumps out the bag on the bed and rifles through the contents just to be sure.

“Uh, Derek?”

Derek’s voice carries from the living room through the half shut door.

“What?”

“Can I borrow some clothes?”

Of course the werewolf comes in without knocking. It is his bedroom but… Derek has no problems with nudity. That includes his or anyone else’s. The whole pack has seen each other in various states of dress. They’ve all seen each other naked before at least once. Derek’s even caught Stiles in flagrante. He had the decency to blush and leave in an adorably flustered manner (he tripped on the windowsill and fell into the bush below Stiles’ window). He might have been 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones but now he’s 147 pounds of slightly defined muscle, pale skin, and fragile bones. Running for your life tends to shape you up a bit. Granted, he is nowhere near as toned as Derek or Scott or even fucking Cora but he has muscles. Muscles that you can see, but that doesn't mean Stiles isn't still a little self conscious about being half naked around Derek. He gestures to the contents of the bag emptied out onto the other man’s bed.

“He packed me deodorant but not my toothbrush. Socks but not underwear. He did manage to grab all my missed assignments and….”

He lifts a carton and stares at it, slightly bewildered, before his confused smile turns amused and fond.  
  
“And a carton of pulp free orange juice.”

He grins at the carton before placing it on the bedside table. It’s too warm to drink now. He'll probably have to throw it out because it’s been in his bag for over an hour and half, but he doesn't want Scott to see him do it. He'll wait later. Derek is still staring at the orange juice, with a look that clearly tells Stiles he’s reconsidering the person who he picked as his wolf brother/Alpha.

“In his defense, I was trying to use the fireplace poker to scratch my back.”

Derek looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh. Stiles can see his shoulders shaking as he turns to dig in his dresser.

“You can borrow some of my clothes. Better to wear something loose anyway.”

He catches the pants Derek throws at him.

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Cora and our little cousin Connor caught it the same time, probably from each other. They were miserable. Peter came up with the salve to help them because he couldn't stand to see them that way. Laura and I used to take turns rubbing them down when we caught them scratching each other. We should have thought about putting gloves on them. That was smart. Cora lived in one of my t-shirts until it was over. Her clothes were too close to her skin, aggravated it more.”

Stiles nods gently. Memories are handled with care with all of the pack, but especially with Derek, Stiles, Isaac, and Cora. He makes a distraught face that pulls Derek away from darker thoughts.

“Cora must never know.”

Derek rolls his eyes, throws the rest of the clothes at Stiles’ face, and walks out of the room. Stiles saw the grin on his face. By the time he pulls on the t-shirt he can hear the pack moving around in the open living room. He tries to ignore the fact that he’s wearing Derek’s clothes (more specifically he’s trying to ignore the fact that he’s wearing a pair of his boxer briefs - a pair of his black, snug fitting boxer briefs). Erica zeros in on him like a hawk. Her smirk is nothing short of predatory.

“Stiles, you look… comfy.”

He flips her off now that he’s free of the mitts. Even his fingers have spots.

“I’d be a lot more comfortable if I wasn't half a second away from clawing off my own skin.”

Suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder and a voice purring in his ear.

“Here Stiles, let me.”

Stiles promptly flips Peter to the floor. Erica laughs gleefully. Lydia beams at him from her perch on the counter. Derek gives him a proud smirk while Isaac and Boyd start a slow clap. Jackson gawks and pats at the air near Lydia’s shoulder. He’s too shocked for proper hand-eye coordination. 

“Did you know he could do that?”

Peter and Jackson hadn't known that Chris Argent had been training Stiles, nor did they know that his own father had started to instruct his own self defense lessons on him. Not many people knew his dad used to be a nationally ranked kickboxing champion and martial artist. Stiles ignores them all to loom over Peter’s where he’s still laid out on the floor. He looks dazed but otherwise unharmed. Honestly, Stiles knew it was him. He just wanted him to get the message.

“So what did we learn?”

The older man blinks up at him. He looks like he got the wind knocked out of him. But Stiles knows better. Peter could have been back up on his feet in seconds. He’s just shocked. Stiles smirks down at him.

“No touching of the Stiles.”

He nods his head and crosses his arms over his chest, lazily spreading his legs wider. He knows it makes him look bigger than he is. He has height on everyone here, except for Boyd, and shoulders almost as broad as Derek’s. Chris had called it the _position of power_ or something during his defense training. _Utilize everything, no matter how insignificant or small, to your advantage_. The triumphant stance is kind of ruined by him rubbing at one pec with the heel of his hand, but the point still stands. He grabs the bottle the werewolf managed to not spill from the floor.

“Thanks for the salve.”

Peter just nods and makes no move to get up. Stiles makes his way over to the couch and sniffs at the stuff in the bottle.

“Smells like Christmas.”

Erica takes it from him and sniffs it too.

“Evergreen extract.”

Something mischievous glints in her eyes. Stiles knows where this is going. He tries to head her off by grabbing the bottle back, but she yanks it out of his grasp and grins. She makes a shooing motion toward his shirt. When he doesn't move she flicks out her claws and makes it again. He rolls his eyes but takes it off and promptly ignores everyone else in the room.

“Sit.”

She points at the floor at her feet. He narrows his eyes at her, but he sinks down to sit. He’s too anxious for something, anything to make the itching stop to argue with her. The second the clear minty green lotion hits his skin he moans, long and low. Dignity can go fuck itself.

“ _Fuuucck_ , that feels good.”

He is barely aware of something shattering in the kitchen. He tries to peek his head around to see what happened, but Erica starts rubbing the salve over his shoulders and into his collarbones. He really couldn't care less but he still needs to ask.

“Hmmmm. Everybody alright in there?”

There’s a shuffle and a dull thwack before Isaac squawks and answers.

“Ye-yeah. Fine. Good. Plate slipped.”

He grumbles something that could pass for an affirmative into his own chest where his chin’s dropped as Erica carefully rubs in the salve. The salve doesn't completely stop the discomfort he feels, but it sure as shit soothes the itch. He still wants to scratch, but it’s not nearly as bad anymore.

He must zone out because the next thing he knows Erica’s helping him into his shirt, and Scott is dangling a Walgreens bag in front of his face.

“You smell better.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at his best friend. His mom was the one to make him use that oat stuff. He tries to grab at the bag, but Scott pulls it back.

“I smell like a winter wonderland made of minty snowflakes of pure amazingness.”

He reluctantly he holds out a fist to Peter who hands him a glass of water.

“You did alright Peterphile.”

The older werewolf rolls his eyes at the nickname but accepts the bro fist. Scott just rolls his eyes and hands him the pill bottle while Isaac hands him a plate of food. He gets a whole carton of spring rolls to himself. He leans up enough to give Erica a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, Catwoman.”

She ruffles his hair before she scoots up to take her own plate from Boyd.

“Only the best for my sick Batman.”

Boyd playfully shoves Stiles face away to take his seat next to her. Derek and Isaac flop down on either side of him. Somehow blankets and pillows get tossed around and piled up and moved into peak comfort positions as Jackson puts in the movie. Stiles finds himself with two pillows and a blanket, and Erica absently toying with his hair sporadically. Isaac shares his ducks sauce with him, and Scott reminds Stiles that he needs to stay hydrated. Stiles pops two pills, following the directions, and downs half his glass of water. He then sticks his tongue out at his best friend to show him that he took his meds and for no other reason. Scott still flips him off.

He digs into the food. He’s starving because he hasn't had much of an appetite all week. Between one spring roll and heaping forkful of drunken noodles he must fall asleep. He actually remembers some sort of action movie intro, so he knows he didn't fall asleep face first in his food… this time. He would like to state for the record that your first experience with finals as a freshman with 21 credit hours and a work-study is extremely exhausting, okay?

He’s currently in a blanket burrito with his face smushed up against Derek’s bicep. He immediately starts to rub his cheek roughly against the soft cotton. His eyes catch on Derek’s watch. Apparently, the salve works for a couple of hours. He blinks down at the time and then up at Derek who is watching him patiently.

“I ate the last of your spring rolls before you rolled over them.”

Stiles shrugs and kind of shimmies into an upright position using Derek as support.

“I probably drooled on you at some point.”

Derek snorts but turns back to the movie. Isaac nudges his shoulder.

“Your dad called while you were asleep.”

Stiles grumbles and starts to untangle himself from his nest of blankets. Seriously, he had one when he went to sleep. Now he has three, the red one he prefers, the green from Isaac’s room, the blue one that Scott had… He lifts his head to see Scott wiping his head back around to the movie fast enough to give a human whiplash. Seriously, momma wolf. Stiles rolls his eyes causing Erica to giggle. He gives up trying to untangle himself and just uses Isaac as a handhold to pull himself free. For the most part the werewolf grumbles under his breath but still helps Stiles up with a firm hand around his forearm.

Stiles snags his phone from the side table by the sofa and makes his way into the kitchen. He dials his dad’s number as he rubs sleep from his eyes.

“Hey kiddo.”

The Sheriff doesn't seem surprised or worried.

“Hi, dad. Scott text you?”

His dad huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, he did. You feeling better?”

Stiles nods, runs his fingers down a trail of milky white mother of pearl running through the slab of granite covering the kitchen island.

“Slept for a few hours. The medicine… it’s working alright.”

And it is. Mostly. Antivirals work well enough with his Adderall. Sometimes they don't work fully. Stiles feels better, but he still feels that low thrum of discomfort all over. His skin feels too small for his body. He doesn't like the memories it’s bringing back up. He hates it even more when he dad starts to apologize.

“I know I said I'd be home by tomorrow morning, but it looks like they need more help down here than they let on.”

His dad is down in Santa Barbara helping out their police department on a case. After being let in on all the supernatural, his dad’s been closing cold cases left and right and decidedly sweeping the funky stuff right under the rug. Having Deputy Parrish on their side is a huge help too. Between the two of them, they've been consulting with other departments up and down the state. It rarely takes John out of town but this is a very human case of a missing person, a little boy, Stiles will never be disappointed in his father. He just, he just isn’t ready to not have a safety net yet.

“Scott said he wouldn’t mind-“

He’s not ready; he probably won't ever be, really. But he draws the line at his insecurities interfering with his best friend’s livelihood. It’s two weeks from finals for both of them. Stiles knows he’s got his grades and degree in the bag. But the exams coming up for Scott? They will determine if he gets into Med School or not. Stiles can deal with this by himself.

“Dad. I'll be okay by myself.”

His dad is silent on the line, and Stiles knows, knows, that he’s frowning and rubbing at his temples.

“I can send Parrish over-“

Stiles sighs.

“Dad, seriously. I’ll be fine by myself.”

He laughs softly down the line.

“It’s not like I'll be alone for long. Erica's still apprenticing at the tattoo parlor. Kira's finals are over in two days. Melissa has been checking on me regularly. Isaac is going to send me take your medicine reminder texts. Hell, even Ethan sent me a get well soon email.”

“You’ve got some good friends Stiles.”

There’s more warmth in his voice now, less worry. Stiles smiles and tries to mimic his dad’s calm.

“Nah, we've got a good family, dad.”

Now his dad laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, we do.”

There’s noise in the background. He can hear his dad’s name being called softly. He sighs.

“They need me back. I'll text you later kid. I love you.”

“Love you too, dad. Go catch the bad guys.”

He hangs up and grips at the countertop and just breathes past the nervous ball of anxiety building up behind his ribs.

“You can stay here, if you want.”

Stiles blinks up at Derek. He’s still a little disoriented from the nap. He’s not so good with naps anymore. He’s just getting back to sleeping, actually sleeping the whole night through after… just after. He hasn't been sleeping well since he had gotten sick. That should have been the first warning sign. He’d take short naps and wake up groggy and confused. Just like before, with the nogitsune. His mind starts to race with possibilities, getting stuck between sleep and awake, not knowing what was real or a dream all over again, he can feel his breath coming shorter, his palms start to sweat-

“Drink this.”

She shakes himself out and takes the glass of juice Derek all but forces into his hands.

“T-thanks.”

Derek watches him like a hawk until he finishes the entire thing. Then he calmly takes the glass and sets it in the sink. Stiles leans against the island and focus on Derek.

“We don't mind having you here. I don’t mind.”

Stiles thinks about his house and how empty it will be. How bored he’s been the past few days. How he didn't even realize that he'd been sick for the past few days. After the nogitsune… he’s learning his own body all over again. He thinks about the quiet and how worried Scott was when he actually came over for their usual game night to find Stiles with a high fever and bags under his eyes. He nods at Derek.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Derek shrugs like its’ nothing and points toward the living room.

“Cora’s going to be skyping soon. She’s been asking about you.”

Stiles grins. For as much as Cora says she hates him, they get along pretty well. She only really snarks at the people she likes. Stiles has missed her and her colorful death threats. Jackson is already at the desk with Derek’s laptop on and the Skype window open. Stiles hip checks him out of the way and settles into the computer chair. The familiar beeps of a connecting call come in clearly over the speakers. The grin he has on his face falls when he finally sees her. She’s got that mischievous glint in her eyes. The same one she gets when she’s about to do something very dangerous or when she’s about to bust out laughing. She doesn't seem phased by the sheer number of bright red spots trying their hardest to take over his face.

“Who told you? Scott?”

She giggles, and Stiles catches her eyes darting to the far left of her screen quickly before they're back on him. He leans back and slaps the crap out of Jackson’s shoulder.

“Fuck you Jackson!”

Surprisingly enough Jackson’s the one that fought the hardest for Cora to join the study abroad program. He understood what it was like to be forced under the spotlight when you don't choose to be there. Derek argued that she needed to be with the pack. He was right to an extent. She needed to be with pack. It helped ground her. It helped heal her being around her brother (and even Peter), the rest of the wolves, and the humans. But she also needed to get away, to decompress, and to be around other people that weren't pack. She needed it as a break just as much as she needed it as a learning tool. She needed to be able to interact with people again. The Alphas did a number on her, but she had gotten better.

She ducks her head and apologizes. She has a sense of shame unlike her big brother. It’s short lived though because she’s laughing under her breath.

“You little brat! I hope a Kelpie gets you.”

She smiles at him all wide and warm. It shouldn't be threatening, but it is. He blames her slowly blossoming friendship with Lydia.

“Then who the hell are you going to get to go watch _Winter Soldier_ with you?”

Stiles frowns, starts to itch at his jaw (Jackson smacks his hand away), heaves a frustrated sigh, and narrows his eyes at her.

“You are so lucky I love you.”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“Yeah, yeah. So give me the scoop on Isaac and Allison. I heard there was mini-golf.”

Isaac storms up behind Stiles and shoulders his way into the frame of the webcam.

“There is no scoop on Isaac and Allison because Isaac and Allison are just friends. And Isaac and Allison would appreciate it if people would keep their noses out of their business because Isaac and Allison both know how to cut. them. off.”

Cora snorts. Stiles can tell that it’s more than a little forced. He doesn’t know if she wants to even recognize it yet, she is still dealing with a shit ton of emotional trauma, but she likes Isaac. And while Isaac likes her as a friend and as pack, he flirts with her and cares about her, but he’s kind of dealing with his own emotional trauma with the added benefit of having his first real relationship. Even though he has trouble admitting it because he’s terrified to hurt Scott or ruin things with Allison by moving too fast. (Stiles still thinks it’s going to end up being a shit-show but he’s hoping that Allison and Isaac and Scott and Kira keep handling it as well as they have been. See, he is getting better at being positive! Fuck the Nemeton and it’s heart of darkness bullshit! Fuck psychotic fox spirits and their brainwashing and bodynapping!)

“But you're so cute together!”

Isaac doesn’t relent. Stiles pats his cheek half heartedly then realizes that Isaac has some stubble coming in and quickly uses it to rub against the back of his hand and wrist. Isaac pushes it away but his lip is twitching up into a smile even as he fights against it. Sucker. Isaac sighs at the screen and gives Cora a small smile.

“I miss you.”

She returns the smile.

“I miss you too.”

Stiles makes an affronted sound and shoves Isaac away. Cora rolls her eyes as his face takes up most of the screen. The trademark Hale sass is coming clearly through Skype tonight.

“I miss you too, dumbass.”

Stiles grins and barely gets his mouth open to retort when Jackson is shoving in and demanding to know how she liked some castle in Ireland and if she tried some kind of thing that Stiles gets nauseous thinking about it. He ends up rubbing his face against Jackson’s shoulder because it’s there. Jackson holds his face away from him. He puts just enough pressure to force him out of the screen but not out of the chair.

“Derek! Stiles is trying to scratch!”

Jackson gets a smack to the back of the head for that. Cora is trying not to laugh. She has a hand clamped around her mouth, and her shoulders are shaking. Stiles feels Derek looming behind him before Cora even recognizes her brother in the background.

“Do I need to put the mittens on you again?”

To that Cora loses her shit completely. Stiles glares at her. Then he turns that glare to Derek.

“No.”

Derek eyes him for a moment before ducking his head and rubbing the side of his face against the top of Stiles' shoulder where his own fingers had been rubbing into the material of his borrowed shirt. Cora chokes and almost falls out of the chair. Only her werewolf reflexes keep her upright. Stiles points a finger at her and makes a cut throat move. She nods, but it’s kind of lost in all the gasping and laughing. Jackson makes a gagging sound as his Derek continues to rub his 5 o'clock shadow over Stiles’ shoulder and neck.

“Get a room.”

Stiles flips them all off, shoves Derek away, and storms back into the living room area. He plops down next to Erica. She pets at his hair. He likes Erica best.

“I like Erica best.”

Every werewolf in the room, virtual and risen from the dead included, speak in creepy unison.

“Lie.”

Stiles groans.

“I DON'T WANT TO BE PART OF THIS PACK ANYMORE.”

“ _LIE_.”

He flops across Erica’s lap where she’s still partaking in the Daniel Craig _Bond_ marathon.

“Motherfucking werewolves.”

* * *

The night goes fine until everyone leaves, and Stiles has to go to sleep. He doesn't want to take his second dosage. But Scott watches until he swallows the pills with half a glass of water, and then the watches until Stiles actually swallows the pills down. Most of them leave to go back to school that night. Lydia and Jackson start the drive back to Stanford, Boyd back to SoCal, and Erica back to the tattoo shop at the far end of town. Scott and Isaac will leave for Berkley in the morning. They both promised Melissa breakfast before they go.

That leaves him in Cora’s bed right down the hall from Derek. He’s already counted the rows of books lining the east side of the room. He has already researched and created a wishlist on Amazon consisting of bookcases that he will fucking put together for her and shared it with her. He’s also actively avoiding rubbing himself against her bed sheets. Now he’s staring up at Cora’s ceiling debating how badly she'd beat his ass if he'd stuck glow in the dark stars up there. He’s mapping out Lyra (something to soothe the savage beast) in his head when he hears the door open.

“I put on more of the salve after the 5th reminder text Erica sent.”

He hears a snort and footsteps on the hardwood.

“I can hear you thinking from across the hall.”

Stiles ignores him to start mapping out Canis Major instead. He thinks the literal dog joke will piss her off more than an allusion to one. After a minute of complete silence, Stiles realizes that Derek isn't going to leave him alone. He sighs and punches the pillow beneath his head a little. He can honestly handle this on his own. He can. But Derek is just there…

“With the ADHD I could never figure out what I wanted to do first, now I don't know what to do at all. But I feel like I should do something. It's frustrating and exhausting. And I'm so tired Derek. I haven't slept much sense I got sick. It feels… it feels like it did right after the whole sacrifice thing. But it’s not just the not being able to sleep thing. I've had this constant low grade headache. And my body is spazzing out. It doesn’t know what to do with itself. I'm fucking freezing one minute, Scott was complaining about my teeth chattering when he found me, then the next I feel like I can't breathe I'm so hot.”

He hadn't noticed earlier. Derek keeps his apartment cold and it’s hot being well, _packed_ too close to pack. He pulls at the collar of his shirt then lets it fall against his skin. He finally looks at Derek just because he needs him to just _get it_.

“And I am so goddamn itchy. It feels like a million ants marching around on me. Biting and not letting go. Like the venom is just festering in my blood. It feels like, like wolfsbane under my skin.”  
  
That Derek seems to get. His lips turn into a deep frown and his eyes soften with… something. Maybe worry, but mostly understanding.

“Move over.”

Stiles stares at him as he pads quietly over to the bed. He can’t stop staring as he slips in. He can't until Derek just manhandles him onto his side and uses the sleeves of his shirt and his forearms to rub against Stiles’ too warm skin. He takes special care to brush up against his back and shoulders. Stiles doesn't even fight the blissed out sigh he breathes into his pillow.

“Scott said the medicine should help you sleep.”

Stiles snorts as Derek continues to rub against his crawling skin.

“The joys of ADHD. Medicine doesn't always work as prescribed.”

Derek stiffens behind him, and Stiles turns over enough to catch his blank face. He feels guilty for snapping at Derek, for making him close himself off whenever he’s being so helpful and open with him and the rest of the pack. It took so much work to get him there, to help him figure out that he’s a decent person that Stiles wants to kick himself in the ass.

“Sorry, it’s just, I'm so fucking frustrated. I’m tired, but I can't fall asleep. I'm itchy but can't scratch. I feel like running laps around the loft, but I don't want to get out of bed.”

Derek relaxes again, probably smelling the guilt. He fucking hates that Derek can sense that. He’s about to apologize when Derek rests his hand against the back of his neck. His palm is wide and warm against his skin. Then he feels a rush of cool wash over him he can’t help the shaky soft moan that escapes him because it feels like heaven. The itch almost recedes entirely. He doesn't feel uneasy anymore just slightly uncomfortable like sleeping in pants or a shirt when you usually don’t. The headache is gone and he feels the sleeplessness catching up quickly. His eyes feel like lead weights. He can still feel Derek’s hand at the base of his neck.

“Did you just leech me?”

Derek makes a soft sound, one that sounds exactly like a snort. Stiles is so onto his ways.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles fights against the command. He’s never been good at following orders, especially Derek’s.

“You did that earlier too.”

He knows that someone in the pack did because he actually dozed off with food directly in front of him and a movie queued up. Literally two of Stiles’ most favorite things and he slept right through it. He’s almost asleep when the Derek answers, body still pressed close to him, hands still rubbing wide, warm circles against his back.

“I, I wanted to help you feel better.”

He snorts into his pillow, already drifting off.

“Dude, you always make me feel better.”

He’s asleep between one breath and the next.

* * *

In the morning Stiles walks into the kitchen and gets his hand slapped away from where his nails have started scratching at the back of his neck. He grumbles at Isaac but accepts the cup of coffee he extends to him. He downs half of it before he realizes there are three werewolves watching him. He rolls his eyes as Scott’s eyes flare red.

“Don't scratch.”

Stiles snags the toast Derek has on the pate in the center of the table. Then he glares at the  _You're a Pretty Princess_ Disney mug in all its pink glitter and purple sequined glory. Fuck Cora’s love of Disney, and Isaac’s screwed up sense of humor. He turns his glare on his best friend.

“You do realize that the Alpha voice doesn’t work on me right?”

Scott rolls his eyes anyway. But they are both smiling when he gets up and hugs Stiles. He gestures toward the living room.

“I got your book bag and laptop from your house. I also emailed your professors and made sure they knew you were going to be out all week.”

Stiles shoves him away.

“I have the chickenpox Scott. I'm not some invalid. I can send my own professors an email.”

He shrugs and pulls on his jacket. Stiles knows that his Alpha instincts are acting up over this. They always do when one of the pack are sick or hurt. Isaac, however, doesn't really get the memo. He brushes past Stiles on the way to the door.

“Aw, no hug goodbye?”

The scrunches up his nose and makes a face.

“You're all spotty. It looks gross.”

Stiles takes a step toward him and opens his arms. Isaac starts running to the door. Stiles follows.

“Isaac, LET ME LOVE YOU!”

Derek catches him by grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling a roadrunner. Stiles jerks to a stop. Isaac cackles at him as he darts out the door. Stiles flips him off. Derek sighs as he waves Scott out.

“Text us when you get back on campus.”

Stiles pouts as he watches the door shut. Then he turns to pout at Derek.

“You're no fun.”

Derek manhandles him back into his seat and slides the toast closer to him.

“Eat your breakfast.”

* * *

He gives up on studying for history pretty much immediately because it’s boring. He reads a few chapters to prepare for the final for his Lit class but can't really find the patience for Hamlet’s crazy. Shakespeare can't even begin to match the amount of insanity that Stiles has experienced. So Stiles has been slacking off (he’s got a solid 3.9 GPA regardless of his finals) and playing a game on his phone for a few hours. He’s only died 30 something times. It’s an accomplishment. It’s also an accomplishment that he hasn't had anything since two slices of toast this morning and his stomach is finally hungry enough again to growl. He rubs at his belly with one hand as he valiantly tries to stay alive with the other.

“Dude.”

He waits for a response.

“Hey, Derek.”

Again, nothing. Stiles let’s his phone slip down to his chest, Flappy Bird forgotten in lieu of getting Derek’s attention.

“Derek. Derrrek.”

He kicks out a foot toward the reading werewolf on the end of the couch. Unsurprisingly, Derek catches it without looking away from _A Feast for Crows_.

“You should make me soup, you know _The Soup_.”

Derek shoves his foot back toward him and flips a page calmly.

“There are leftovers are in the fridge.”

Stiles pouts at him. He is really craving the spanish chicken soup Cora’s pack had taught Derek to make when he took that little siesta after the Alpha pack/evil druid fiasco down in South America. And really, Stiles wishes he could have taken some time off because what happened after… nobody got out unscathed. Stiles almost killed everyone. He almost killed himself. Unconsciously, his fingers rub over the place where the scar should be on his stomach. Derek standing startles him out of his thoughts. He slips the book on the coffee table and raises an eyebrow at Stiles where he’s still half slouched on the couch and floor.

“Where are you going?”

Derek slips his phone into his pocket.

“The grocery store.”

Stiles feels guilt tightening around his lungs. He knows that Derek can sense his moods, stupid werewolves and pheromone triggers. It’s not like he can stop his brain from going into that dark space. He’s gotten better at it over the years. Therapy is a wonderful thing, really. But he doesn't want people to do things for him because they pity him. He doesn't want to be the person that uses that against people. Derek jingles his keys in his hand.

“Come on. I’m out of coffee anyway.”

Stiles grins at him even though he knows it doesn't settle right on his face. Derek’s good at reading him. He knows what it’s like to slip into that kind of headspace. He knows how hard it is the shake the _what if’s_ and the darkness. Stiles bumps up against his shoulder as he stands, a silent thank you, before he darts toward the door to grab his hoodie and slip into his shoes. He wonders if he can talk him into a pint of chunky monkey now that Cora isn't home to pilfer it.

* * *

He’s been assigned to find the dried chilies Derek needs for the soup base. It should be simple. He knows what they look like, and he kind of remembers the packaging. The problem is the entire freaking wall is filled with dried peppers and everything looks exactly. the. same. Leave it to Derek to be all into the organic food. Leave it to Derek to ask him to got get the chilies to get him out of his hair while he did some actual grocery shopping. Stiles snorts and grabs the package of ancho chilies from a brand that makes him grin manically: _Miguel Caliente._

He finds Derek four aisles over, grocery cart much fuller than when he left him. He practically crows when he sees Derek reaching into the freezer for two pints of chunky monkey. The only thing stopping him is the fact that he almost drops his bag of dried chilies trying to use his shoulder to scratch his ear while nearly running into someone else’s cart. There’s an apology on his lips as he finally looks up and meets soft blue eyes.

“Uh Ryan, hi!”

Deputy Parrish gives him a warm smile and a hand on his forearm to keep him from toppling into his buggy. And really, what else could be more embarrassing than literally running into your ex at the grocery store and almost falling into his chart?

“Hello, Stiles. I see your dad wasn't kidding when he said you had more of a moderate case of Chickenpox.”

Yeah, no. Scratch that. Your father talking about your motherfucking chicken pox to your ex is more embarrassing. Stiles blushes and scratches at his neck before he realizes what he’s doing and drops his hand. Instead he shrugs his shoulders to try and get rid of the rising itch between his shoulder blades.

“Why is it that you’re not itchy until someone mentions something that is itchy?”

Ryan smiles kindly at him. Ryan’s always been nice, extremely polite, and level headed. He took the news about werewolves pretty well, if pretty well meant pulling a Hans Solo. Turns out, the claw like scar on his back was from when his unit got into a fight with a rather pissed off weretiger in Siberia. Stiles had starting humming _It’s a Small World Afterall_ during the shocked silence of the pack that followed _._ Ryan joined in and a week later they were dating.

They parted on good terms. They were together for a little more than a year. (Who knew Stiles coming home during his sophomore year to help deal with a wendigo problem would lead to him leaving with three stitches and a hot Deputy for a boyfriend?) They loved the same things, cared about the same people (Ryan adored his dad and liked the pack), and they were happy together. The sex was great, Stiles never had to worry about waking up from a nightmare and scaring the shit out of Ryan because Ryan had nightmares too. The age gape didn’t bother them either. They loved each other, but it wasn't enough to keep pretending that they weren’t just staying together because they were tired of keeping secrets and making excuses with other people.

“Trick of the mind I guess.”

Stiles gives him a wry grin. He vehemently ignores the itch between his shoulders blades.

“I also see why your father said that I wouldn't need to swing by your place and check up on you. Hello, Derek.”

A warm hand starts to press firmly against his back and rubs in a wide circle. Stiles kind of slumps back into him, a little, barely. Stiles hasn't had shame since 2nd grade. Ryan doesn't even bat an eye at Stiles practically draping himself against Derek’s front.

“Deputy Parrish.”

Ryan nods his head in greeting, a small smile on his lips. He seems to be studying Derek for something. Stiles doesn't know exactly. He’s too busy yelping because Derek has slapped his hand away from where he was scratching at his neck again. Stiles stands up straighter and glares over his shoulder at Derek. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Well, it looks like Stiles is in good hands. I'll leave you to your shopping then.”

Derek reaches out and shakes the hand that Ryan offers. Stiles quirks an eyebrow and immediately starts rubbing it. Ryan chuckles as he leaves and Derek sighs. He takes Stiles’ shoulder and guides him back toward their abandoned chart. (With two pints of Chunky Monkey and a pint of Cherry Garcia, fuck yeah!)

* * *

“HOLY FUCK!”

He grabs at his heart, shock bleeding quickly into indignation.

“Kira, what the hell are you doing here?!”

She is still beaming at him twisting back and forth on the balls of her feet. (He secretly thinks it’s less kitsune energy and more because she likes it when her skirt does that swishy thing. He needs to ask Lydia, for science.)

“My school got out two weeks early, and I didn't have to take my last final after all soooo, I decided to come down early and spend time with you!”

Stiles doesn't even have time to groan about Scott being an overprotective Alpha when Derek comes surging through the door, shirt still clinging to his shower damp skin as he assess the threat. Stiles glares at him if only to ignore the way he can’t count the werewolf’s abs through the soft grey cotton.

“Oh, put the claws away. You knew she was coming. I should have known when I saw Cherry Garcia.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles can see his claws quickly shifting back to human fingers. The over dramatic asshole… who is still in a shirt that is clinging to every single inch of muscle. Kira steps into his line of view, effectively blocking him from seeing Derek bend over to grab the bottle of OJ from the fridge.

Stiles narrows his eyes at her. She narrows her eyes right back. It’s not as menacing as she thinks it is. It’s kind of adorable actually. And Stiles would tell her that, but he’s seen her in action with a sword and that’s _before_ the lightning.

“Why didn't you react when I snuck up on you? You're pretty much the self defense expert in the pack now.”

He makes an _are you kidding me_ face. It involves a lifted eyebrow, a slight headshake, and a whole lot of projected exasperation.

“Because I'm in Derek’s house, and he wouldn't let anything hurt me?”

Kira’s suspicious look fades into something warm and fond. He grumbles under his breath and turns away from her. He also effectively turns away from Derek. Who is staring at him with something pretty close to awe.

“Yeah, yeah I caught the chicken pox, laugh it up.”

She doesn't laugh it up. But she does make him French toast, and it is awesome. So awesome, it distracts him from the fact that Derek’s changed into his Forest Ranger uniform and is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee, his breakfast already eaten. The thing with uniforms is that Stiles doesn't have a thing with uniforms. He really doesn’t. Parrish’s uniform didn't do anything for him because he’s seen his dad in his entire life. Even a white Doctor’s coat doesn't do it for him after too many nights spent in a hospital’s visitors chair.

But something about the how the black Dickies fall across his thighs, the way the dark gray Carhartt work shirt fits across his shoulders, how the gape shows off the peak of his collarbones, even the stupid Forest Ranger baseball cap Derek favors instead of the Mountie cap… Stiles has a things for the California Forest Ranger’s uniform. (It’s maybe more of a Derek in a California Forest Ranger’s uniform. Probably. Stiles doesn't like to think about it. They've worked hard to become friends. He’s probably Derek’s best friend. Hell, he is Stiles’ best friend. And best friends don’t tell each other they look hot in their work uniform.)

He distracts himself from staring by gulping down too hot tea. It’s the weird blend of almond, lavender, and chamomile. It’s actually really nice if it weren’t, you know, scalding the crap out of his throat. He coughs into a fist as Kira snorts at him. Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles feels his world right on its axis. He flips them both off. Derek laughs at him while he puts his mug in the sink to wash later. The action brings him close to Stiles chair. He rubs his cheek against the back of Stiles' neck and Stiles all but sags into the touch. He can't quite manage to stop the goofy smile on his face as Derek stands.

“See you guys later.”

They sit in silence as Derek grabs his keys and phone and walks out the door. Stiles ignores the crap out of Kira’s amused, smug little grin. But he can feel his lips twitching with the need to smile. God, why can’t Scott ever fall in love with someone that is impossible to not like?

“You going to help me study for my history exam or not?”

She gets up, skirt swishing around her as she twirls to put their cups in the sink.

“You going to let me beat you at Need for Speed?”

He snorts and makes his way into the living room.

“You wish. But let’s face it, the virtual world is the only place I'll ever be faster than you.”

Kira grins but opens up his history book, pulling it and his flashcards into her lap and she flounces on the sofa.

* * *

This continues for two days. They're pretty uneventful. The pack or, what’s left of it with most of them back at school or work, come over for dinner. That usually means Erica taking over the smart TV and forcing them to watch horrible B movies for a couple of hours. Stiles tries sleep on his own. Derek ends up pulling his pain and falling asleep with him in Cora’s room. They wake up curled around each other for 3 days straight. It’s… nice

What’s not nice are the scabs forming on his skin from the pox. It makes him even itchier, if that’s even possible. But the good news is that he’s pretty much got the all clear to head home and back to school. He’s no longer contagious. He should be happy. He has two more days until he takes his finals for the last time as an undergrad. Instead he’s standing in Cora’s room rubbing the cuffs of the Henley he’s wearing between his fingers.

“I can _seriously_ hear you thinking from across the hall.”

He snorts but finishes shoving the rest of his stuff in the duffle bag at the foot of the bed. Derek watches him, the stiff set of his shoulders and frowns.

“Hey, don't worry about your finals. I've seen you studying with Kira. You've got that history final in the bag. I've proofread your papers for English. If your professors give you less than an A, they’re insane.”

He rolls his eyes at him even if Derek can't see him do it. He knows Derek knows he's doing it.

“I know. I just wanted to say thanks, for everything.”

Derek shrugs, rubs at his neck. He’s still not good with compliments and genuine gratitude.

“What are friends for?”

Stiles swallows, ignores the sudden falling of his stomach. He takes a step toward Derek. He’s tired of tiptoeing around this… around the possibility of _them_.

“Yeah, but friends don't exactly find their other friends hot in their work uniforms. Friends don't rub their faces all over their friend’s body. Friends sure as hell don't want to kiss their friends senseless.”

Derek takes a breath, eyes darting down to Stiles lips before licking his own. His hands rest against Stiles hips, warm and strong. He doesn't even know when they got there. Probably around the same time Stiles locked eyes with mesmerizing hazel bluegoldgreen.

“Stiles…”

Yelling from the living room makes them both jump back.

“STILES! Come on! Danny is waiting downstairs, and we both have finals in 5 hours!”

Stiles locks eyes with Derek and bursts out laughing as Scott slams the door shut again.

“God, our timing always kind of sucks.”

Derek gives him a shy smile, rubbing at the back of his neck again. This time he has a blush high on his cheeks.

“Yeah, it kind of does.”

Stiles adjust his grip on the duffle all humor forgotten. Because he thinks he kind of has his answer.

“We are going to continue this when I get back next week.”

Derek meets his eye and grins as he walks out of the room.

“Good luck on finals.”

Stiles stands there smiling at nothing until his phones starts blaring Bad Moon Rising. He ignores Scott's call in favor of grabbing his duffle and jogging out of the apartment. Scott gives him a raised eyebrow at his shit eating grin once he gets in the car. Stiles ignores him in favor of grilling Danny on his biochem notes.

* * *

He gets a text from Cora the day before his last final.

_The fuck does my bed reek like you, Derek, and Christmas itself barfed all over it!?_

He pointedly ignores it.

Mostly because he’s in the middle of his history final, and Dr. Milton with throw his phone and him out of the window if he sees him texting during an exam.

It has nothing to do with the sudden swooping butterflies in his stomach.

Nothing at all.

* * *

It’s not even a week later (its actually 4 hours and 24 minutes after his last final) when Stiles shows up at Derek’s apartment again. He’s wearing the soft grey Henley Derek lent to him to go home in. When Derek walks in, his eyes zero in on Stiles in an instant lingering over the play of fabric across his shoulders. Derek might have more mass, but Stiles is taller and fills out the shirt just fine. Stiles plays with his thumbnail on one hand and motions toward the back of his neck with the other.

“I’m still feeling a little itchy.”

Derek stalks toward Stiles. There really isn't any other way to describe it. Derek stalks toward him, silently and determined. It’s kind of hot really. He stops just shy of touching Stiles and leaves the tiniest gap of air between them. Stiles can feel his body heat, can feel the brush of Derek’s leather jacket against his shirt (Derek’s shirt) as he exhales. Stiles tilts his head down just the tiniest bit, doesn't even fight the smirk on his lips. They've danced around each other long enough. Derek must think so too because he has his own tiny smirk pulling at his lips.

“Yeah?”

He nods his head, pushing forward that last half-inch and into Derek’s space. He kind of has trouble looking away from Derek’s eyes. (He kind of always had that problem now that he thinks about it.)

“Yeah.”

 Derek licks his lips, eyes locking onto Stiles'.

“I think I can help with that.”

He can feel almost feel the words against his lips. Stiles doesn't need more of an invitation than that. He’s cradling Derek’s jaw in one hand and carding his fingers in the hair on the back of Derek’s head with the other. Somebody makes a keening sound. Stiles cannot tell you for the all the money in the world who made it. All he knows is that Derek is kissing back, hard but not painful, insistent and sure. Stiles bites at his bottom lip just to see what he'll do. Derek takes in a shocked breath before he tilts his head and changes the angle of the kiss, tongue sliding against the seam of Stiles lips, and Stiles thinks _Oh,_ _so this is what Allison meant by kisses that made your knees weak_. After a few minutes where Derek continues to blow his mind and Stiles pulls even more noises from Derek, they break away to breathe. Well Stiles does, Derek just starts going to town on his neck. Stiles clutches at his shirt to keep him close, like he'd go anywhere.

“I think I've been doing this whole kissing thing wrong.”

Derek keeps sucking a hickey into his neck. He alternates laving his tongue against the soft bites he trails against Stiles’ pale skin and blowing on them to make Stiles shudder under him. He only breaks away to look Stiles in the eye. (It’s easier now that Derek’s manhandled him to sit on the kitchen island. And yeah, Stiles thinks that’s hot too.) Stiles knows that there isn’t going to be any issues with timing again.

“I can help with that too.”

Stiles pulls him back into the space between his legs. Derek goes easily, slipping a hand up the back of Stiles shirt to touch warmed skin. He groans at the feel of Derek’s dick rubbing up against his own through two layers of denim and cotton.

“I'm volunteering at the Children’s Reading corner _for the rest of my life_.”

“Stiles.”

He stops running his hands up and Derek’s sides, stops slipping his hands over the older man’s hips to palm his ass.

“Stop talking.”

There is only one way Stiles will ever respond to that. A leopard cannot change its spots after all. From the heat pooling behind Derek’s eyes, he already knows the answer.

“Make me.”

* * *

As it turns out, the salve Peter made works wonders on beard burn too.


End file.
